


An Untold Tale

by Kaz



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family, Gen, Peredhil Twin Conservation, Time Travel, because Elrond's family has too many twins in it, but Elrond and Celebrían will hug it away just watch them, some angst especially at the start, we can fix this by making one of the pairs do twice the work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21838441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz/pseuds/Kaz
Summary: Injured, afraid, and freezing in the forests of Doriath, Elurín manages to tap into an inheritance from Melian he never realised was there. In his desperation, he uses it, and he and his brother vanish from history.Three thousand years later, a patrol of Imladris finds two strange boys in the woods.
Relationships: Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel
Comments: 31
Kudos: 214





	An Untold Tale

In the forests outside Menegroth, two half-elves huddle together in the snow. It is the depths of winter, and they are not dressed for the weather – their clothing is light, made for a hall deep underground warmed by a roaring fireplace, they have no cloaks, no boots. One of them is bleeding.

In the distance, a monster howls. _"Eluréd!"_ it cries. Someone unsuspecting, someone foolish, might think the monster is worried for them. Might be tempted to answer. Its quarry knows better.

_"Elurín!"_

The voice is closer.

The two boys share a desperate glance. They know how to survive in the woods. Back home, back in Ossiriand, their mother walked with them through the ancient forest speaking in her quiet voice. This mushroom, it is edible, as long as you cut the stem and it does not bleed yellow. These berries, once they are ripe. These are rabbit-tracks, here is how you set a trap for one. But beware, children. The forest is generous, yet perilous, and you must treat it with respect. Step lightly, leave no trace, and keep your ears pricked for monsters. Never go unarmed. And never, ever enter the woods in deep winter if you are not prepared.

The boys listened, and learned, and so they know: this is not the way to survive. They have no tools, no weapons, no shelter. They left tracks, cracked branches and bloody footprints in the snow – a trail monsters can follow. And if the monster does not catch them, the cold will.

Eluréd thinks: he would rather die to the cold than to the monster.

Elurín thinks: he doesn't want to die.

His thoughts chase each other in circles, desperate for a way out. Chase each other, and _catch-_

_-_ catch on something he has never realised was there, as though deep, deep within him there is a light shining forth. Grasping gives him strength, makes his thoughts come slower, come _stranger-_

They are too weak to run, to climb, to dig – but how had he never realised there was another direction they could flee to?

But he is not strong enough. He needs his brother.

They are close-close-close, his hand gripping Eluréd's so tightly he cannot feel it anymore (he tells himself that is why he cannot feel it). It is the work of an instant to pass his thoughts across the divide, so Eluréd can see what he means to do.

Eluréd has the light deep within too.

For a moment Elurín hesitates, afraid. Something in him knows that if he pushes forward, things will never be the same-

_"Eluréd!"_

The monster is far, far too close.

It is bare instinct, drawn from a place his mother never knew, but sometimes instinct is enough. Within him, within Eluréd, the light flares. Together, they reach out and pull, until-

The world _twists-_

When Maedhros enters the clearing at a run, it is empty.

*****

"But where did they even come from?" Celebrían asks plaintively.

Elrond shakes his head. "Your guess is as good as mine," he says as he carefully peels back the poultice from the boy's hand.

Imladris has been in an uproar ever since two of the border scouts came back at a gallop, their horses bearing two tiny limp figures. The boys look Númenorean, but none of the nearby settlements have reported any missing children. This could, perhaps, be explained by the fact that whoever lost them may not want to admit to them. The children bear clear signs of mistreatment – a badly wrenched shoulder, a bruise formed of five fingers around a thin wrist – enough to make Elrond go still and cold while Celebrían seethes with rage. It is possible that their parents realise they will find no warm welcome, should they come to reclaim their offspring...

Nothing, however, can explain the fact that the boys were hypothermic and battling frostbite when found, on a morning in the golden days of late summer.

Elrond's breath hisses out in a relieved sigh as he inspects the skin that lay beneath the bandages. "All the fingers are safe after all. I thought for sure he'd lose the smallest."

Celebrían feels a smile break over her face. "That is excellent news, dearest! You are skilled indeed."

Ever since their marriage, Celebrían has set out to learn what can make her husband blush, and she knows this sort of compliment should count among that number. Yet now, Elrond only frowns, still staring down at the boy's unblemished hand.

"I wish I could take the credit, but... they are resilient children. Far more than I was expecting." The words should be relieved, but instead her husband sounds more bewildered than anything else. "If I didn't know better, I'd say they were Peredhel in truth, some large part of their blood Elven to grant them such a recovery... but that's impossible, of course."

He doesn't have to say why. Both of them know that Elrond has no immortal kin left on these shores.

"Perhaps Elros' blood runs particularly strongly in them..." he murmurs to himself.

Celebrían steps closer, smoothes the hair back from one sleeping face. They look so Númenorean-

-look so much like Elrond, in other words.

Deep within her, a yearning stirs. Celebrían wants children. She knows that she has time – all the time in Arda – but it has been well over two decades since her marriage and despite her and Elrond's best attempts, their family has not grown any larger. These boys resemble her husband so greatly, looking at them Celebrían could almost imagine-

She squashes the idea down before Elrond can feel it, scolds herself for idle fantasy in the private spaces of her mind. The boys are not hers; even if their parents are unsuitable, surely they will have other kin who will love and cherish them as they deserve. Celebrían's duty is to find those people.

She just has to keep reminding herself of that.

*****

Normally, Elurín wakes lightly, easily, as though his mind were simply skimming over the surface of sleep and needs just the tiniest push to leave it behind. Not today. Today sleep drags at him like sucking mud, trying to drag him back down into strange, twisting dreams. Elurín has to fight his way free from the depths until he surfaces, gasping, into the waking world.

Here, light spills across his face, bright enough to warm his skin and flood the world red through his closed eyes. Sunlight, he can feel, not the low firelight or jewel-glow of Menegroth, and for a moment he thinks he is back in Ossiriand-

Except that he cannot feel the shadows of branches, that when his eyelids flutter the light that meets him is pure white and not filtered green through the leaves.

His nose wrinkles. Where-

And then the last vestiges of sleep recoil as his memory comes roaring back. Memory of smoke and fire, of a world dyed deep crimson even with his eyes wide open. Of his mother lying still and quiet on the floor of the throne room, dark liquid pooling beneath her to soak her tangled braids, her spear still clutched in her hand.

Of harsh voices and a cruel grip dragging him forward. Of the forest, and the cold, and a monster on their trail.

Elurín's eyes snap open as he sits bolt upright.

The room he is in is entirely unfamiliar. The walls are stone, but lacking the fantastic carvings that are everywhere in Menegroth and bearing large arched windows that prove he cannot be underground. He is sitting in a bed, the mattress soft underneath him, the blanket that was tucked around him now tangled around his hips. On the other side of the room is another bed covered in a cheerful quilt. The bright, oddly shaped patches draw the eye to the extent that Elurín almost misses the head of dark hair on the pillow, identical to his own.

Elurín's breath whooshes out in relief when he sees his brother, cheeks a healthy pink, chest rising and falling gently as he sleeps only feet away.

"Oh! You're awake."

The woman in the doorway is also unfamiliar. Or rather, Elurín is certain he has never seen her face before...

But he has seen her hair. A waterfall of bright silver that spills down to her waist, it is just like that of his cousins, of Galadhon, Galathil and Oropher. Or, further back – so far it might be dream, not memory – a pale, gleaming curtain all around him as he is nestled safe and warm in someone's arms, reaching out in wonder to grasp some of it, deep booming laughter making the chest he rests against shake-

"I'm so glad you're up, we've all been worried about you! Our guards found the two of you in the woods days ago, you've been sleeping the whole time. How do you feel?"

Elurín opens his mouth to respond, but his voice dies before it can leave his throat. All that comes out of his mouth is a hoarse croak.

In a rustle of fabric, the lady is by his bedside, holding a wooden cup out for him to grasp with clumsy fingers. "You must be parched – here."

The water is cool as rain, flavoured with mint, and all in all the best thing Elurín has ever tasted. He drains the whole thing before he tries to speak again.

"Where are we?"

"In Imladris," a new voice answers.

Elurín's gaze snaps back to the doorway, where-

"Father?"

He winces even as the word escapes him.

"I'm afraid not," says the man who is not his father, walking up to stand beside the silver-haired woman. Up close, it should be easy to tell the difference, but if anything the resemblance is even stronger. It is Father's dark hair, spiderweb-fine and just as straight, braided back from his face in an unfamiliar style. Father's arched brows, Father's proud nose, Father's pointed chin, Father's clear grey eyes. Even the air around him grows heavy with the promise of lightning as he nears, just as it does around Father.

His gait is different, Elurín tells himself, slower and more measured. His clothes and accent are both strange. There is a thin scar on one cheek, something subtly off about his mouth, a weight to his gaze that reminds Elurín of Mother more than anyone else. And, last but not least, the taste in the air is muted, more akin to the way it feels around Eluréd or Elwing than around Father himself. Elurín clings to these differences in a world gone mad.

"I am Elrond," the man continues, "and this is my wife Celebrían."

Even his _name_ sounds like it belongs to family.

"And who might you be?"

Elurín draws breath. Pauses.

Yesterday, he would have answered without a second thought, no matter the man's strangeness. He would have trusted in his seeming kindness, unable to imagine anyone could mean him harm. But the boy he was yesterday is dead as surely as his parents, and the one who has just awoken has learned that monsters too may wear a fair face and speak beautiful words.

The Elurín of today thinks that the last time they told someone who they were, they were dragged out into the woods to die.

Fa- _Elrond's_ face tugs into a small frown when he does not answer. "Where are you from?" he tries.

Elurín darts a glance at his brother's bed. If only he were awake! Eluréd always takes the lead when they have to speak to strangers, it isn't fair that Elurín is the one who has to deal with this now.

But perhaps it is for the best. Eluréd can be hasty, sometimes, like the time he wanted to climb to the top of the waterfall and the whole thing ended with Elurín falling and breaking his arm. He might blurt out things without thinking, things better kept quiet until they have a better understanding of the situation.

The quilt on Elurín's bed is just as colourful as that on Eluréd's, a riot of cheerful reds, oranges and yellows interspersed by the occasional blue or green. Elurín tries to immerse himself in tracing the patches, finding the ones shaped like birds or deer or clouds instead of simple triangles, but as the silence stretches he cannot stop himself from darting occasional glances up at the couple.

The woman's – Celebrían's – brows furrow as he goes longer and longer without answering. She has just opened her mouth as if to speak, Elurín hunching his shoulders in preparation for the rebuke, when Elrond reaches over to rest a hand on her arm. He does not look impatient at all; rather, his eyes ( _Father's eyes_ ) are very, very sad.

"It's all right. For now, would you mind if I examined you? I'm a healer, and I want to make sure you've taken no lasting harm from your ordeal."

Before he can think better of it, Elurín nods jerkily.

Elrond's hands are as steady and sure as Mother's were, back when she had to splint his arm after his fall. Elurín closes his eyes in order not to have to see the man's face and wishes very hard that everything that happened since that day will turn out to only have been a bad dream.

It doesn't work.

*****

Eluréd wakes up not long after. Elurín is worried he will ruin things, but Elrond does not ask any more questions... nor does Eluréd volunteer any answers. After a puzzled look around the room (and a double-take at Elrond), he is near as close-mouthed as Elurín. Yesterday has left an impression on him as well, Elurín suspects.

Elrond pronounces them both healthy, "but I would still advise you rest today, to recover. You have received a great shock in body and mind – it is wisest to be gentle with yourself, after such. Tomorrow you may be introduced to Imladris properly. Today I will have food brought up." His eyes flicker between Elurín and his brother, and he adds, "We can also move your beds together, if you would like."

It is a kind gesture. Elurín does not trust it.

And yet it would be so reassuring, to be beside his brother.

"That would be very kind of you," Eluréd says, lordly as though they are in their dreaded etiquette lessons. "We thank you."

Elurín also wants to be closer to his brother so he can jab an elbow into his side when he's clearly asking for one.

A smile flits across Elrond's face. "As you wish."

A few hours later finds Elurín and Eluréd huddled together beneath the quilts. Elrond had, indeed, pushed their beds together as promised. He'd left after, but Celebrían came back up not long later bearing a tray of food. There had been sourdough bread still warm from the oven topped with crumbled goat's cheese and blackberry jam, a bowl of strawberries with clotted cream, and – in pride of place on each plate – two small honey-cakes shaped like stars. Celebrían had winked at them as she put the tray on the bedside table.

Elurín hadn't trusted this kindness either.

He'd eaten his cake all the same.

Now the brothers are sated, their stomachs full and cuts bandaged, the cold chased from their bones. Ready, in short, to discuss their situation.

They whisper in Taliska. Ordinarily, they would use the secret speech for this, the one of elusive meaning and ever-changing sounds spoken almost as much with the mind as the tongue, safe in the knowledge that no one but family can understand them. But-

There is Elrond.

They whisper in Taliska, and hope that no one here knows it.

Eluréd too has never heard of Imladris, but it does not bother him in quite the way it does Elurín. (Possibly because he was always worse at geography anyway. Elurín still remembers Mother's face the time he claimed Doriath to be on the coast.) He also does not think Elurín's caution necessary.

Being called a coward smarts each and every time, to the point that Elurín normally finds the word goads him into whatever Eluréd wants him to do. This time, though, Elurín stands his ground.

"I just want to understand what's going on here first! Take Elrond. You have to admit that he's strange. _How_ is it that he looks just like Father?"

Eluréd considers this. "Maybe Father had a brother too?"

"But why would he never have told us?" Elurín argues. Eluréd can't seem to find an answer to this, because he punches Elurín in the shoulder. This is probably meant to signal defeat, but it _hurt,_ and so Eluréd shoves him back.

After the resulting scuffle, they settle on a new topic, one even more difficult than their present surroundings...

What happened in Doriath.

The first and worst thing there is no need to discuss, no need to bare to the unfeeling air: Mother is dead. They have been hunting, caught rabbits in snares, they know what it looks like when the spirit has left the body.

Father, however, neither of them saw after the fighting started. Eluréd hopes that he survived, that he is looking for them. Elurín is quietly doubtful. Mother was a far better fighter than Father, disarmed him in moments whenever they sparred, and she-

Well.

So they do not know what happened to Father... nor do either of them know what became of Elwing.

Truth be told, ever since her birth Elurín has mainly considered his little sister an annoyance. For ages, all she seemed to do was eat, sleep, or scream, with occasional pauses to dirty her diapers. It was a great puzzle to him why his parents found her so fascinating, putting aside important things like playing hide-and-seek with him and Eluréd in favour of babbling nonsense to Elwing. If someone had asked him yesterday, he'd have said he didn't care what happened to her.

But...

But she's been getting better, getting to be more like a real person ever since she started walking. These days she spends a lot of her time tagging around behind the two of them, begging to be included in their games. Eluréd and Elurín are of course much too grown up to be interested in playing with a baby, but sometimes they take pity on her. Elurín, who has spent his life being a hair slower, a hair weaker, and definitely less brave than Eluréd, will secretly admit that having his sister follow him around with hero worship in her eyes is... nice.

"I hope they didn't do to her what they did to us," Eluréd is saying now.

Elurín imagines Elwing dropped in the snow by unfriendly hands, crying in the annoying way she has... except that there would be no Father to pick her up, no Mother to smoothe her hair, only monsters to hear her. His stomach twists, as though the food he ate earlier has turned to stone and ashes within him.

Under the covers, his hand seeks out Eluréd's, squeezes.

"I think we shouldn't tell them who we are," he whispers. "Not yet. Not as long as we don't know what happened."

This time, Eluréd does not scoff at him, does not call him a coward. With the image of Elwing alone in the snow hovering before both of them, he simply nods, jerkily, his hair tickling Elurín's cheek.

Beside their beds, the tray still rests on the nightstand, bearing empty plates with barely a crumb remaining – forgotten.

*****

As promised, Elurín and Eluréd spend the next day being shown around Imladris. Celebrían is the one who guides them, and she is clearly proud of the place. Understandably so, Elurín has to admit. Imladris is strange to him, far different from the ancient trees and _telain_ of Ossiriand or the carved underground wonders of Menegroth, but he can see the beauty in it nonetheless. The fluted buildings emerging from the cliffside with their large arched windows so that all their rooms are flooded with sunlight, the scrubby pines clinging to the valley's steep sides, the white-capped peaks towering above it...

The waterfalls.

There must be thousands of them, Elurín thinks, each tracing a slightly different path from the clifftop to the river that runs through the foot of the valley. Everywhere in Rivendell one can hear their roaring, from every window one can see the spray in the air. They do remind Elurín of Ossiriand, of the great waterfall that sounded like a great thunder of echoing voices only minutes from their home. Despite himself, the reminder has made him start to relax.

The people, however, are more proof that they are in an alien land. Elves, mostly, but also more than a few Secondborn (to Elurín's wonder) and the occasional Dwarf (to his wariness), mingling together in a way he has never seen before. More, their speech is beyond strange, some speaking a language that is entirely unfamiliar, some Sindarin... but a Sindarin with the vowels altered and words drawn out to the point where sometimes Elurín isn't even sure what they are saying. Elrond and Celebrían's accent is nothing in comparison – although Elurín notes that when she speaks to these others, Celebrían slips into their pattern of speech herself.

The inhabitants of Imladris regard the boys with curiosity, something that makes Elurín draw in on himself, Eluréd straighten in preemptive defense. However, whenever one of the strangers seems about to act on that feeling – to ask questions neither of them want to answer – Celebrían is there, skilfully leading the conversation into another direction with deft touches and quick words. Elurín tries very hard not to feel grateful for this.

Fails.

"And this is the library," Celebrían is saying now.

Elurín cranes his neck as Celebrían reaches for the door. He has been curious about this room ever since Celebrían first mentioned it, hours ago. Elurín knows how to read and write these days, having taken to the lessons Father had insisted on after their arrival in Doriath far better than Eluréd. It is not often Elurín gets to say that he is better at something than his brother, so his literacy is something he takes pride in. Mother, who had never learned herself, had seemed mainly bemused by this, but Father had praised him highly.

"It's the way the world is going," he'd said. "Keeping our knowledge in song and story and the heads of the elders is well enough for Elves in peacetime, I suppose, but we live in a world with Morgoth in it. To say nothing of the Gift. This," he'd tapped a sheaf of parchment, "could preserve that knowledge, our people's customs and languages and history, even should our days grow dark. Well then, let's see. Can you read this passage aloud for me?"

Now, Elurín gasps at the sight that greets him. The room is large, so much larger than he was expecting, and there are bookshelves everywhere – against the walls, above the windows, in the middle of the room, surrounding cozy-looking chairs grouped around low tables. There are so many books here, more even than in Father's study in Menegroth!

Celebrían notices his wide-eyed awe. "Elrond has been working on the collection from the day Imladris was founded. At this point, it's probably the finest archive this side of the Sundering Sea. This is the antechamber, containing histories of Eriador and Númenor. The natural sciences are over here," she gestures at an archway between shelves Elurín had not noticed, "philosophy here, histories of the First Age..."

Elurín stops listening in his amazement. There are even _more_ rooms like this?

Surely, Elurín thinks, if there are really so many books here... surely one of them must tell them where they are.

Eluréd, who does not much like reading, is less impressed by the sheer vastness of the place. Instead, he veers over to the far wall, where – Elurín realises with embarrassment – a large map hangs. He'd missed it in his excitement.

"Ah, yes – Elrond drew that. He taught himself quite a bit of cartography, in the time just after the War of Wrath."

This might be useful information if Elurín had ever heard of a war by that name. For now, he is more interested in seeing the map, hurries to Eluréd's side.

It...

"You're better at this than me," Eluréd whispers, his admitting such out loud proof of the dire situation they are in. "Do you recognise anything?"

Elurín shakes his head mutely.

The map is fine work, coasts and mountains, forests and rivers drawn with a careful, steady hand in exacting detail. It is enough to make clear that the land mass it shows is entirely unfamiliar. The coast is wrong, with no Falas, no Nevrast and Hithlum to the north or Mouths of Sirion with the Isle Balar to the south. There are mountains to the east, as there should be, but Elurín cannot find the seven rivers that should flow from them, nor the gap to the north-west that should separate them from Himring and Taur-no-Fuin – nor, for that matter, either Himring or Taur-no-Fuin...

Celebrían has come over to join them, silver eyebrows arched. Elurín is considering whether they can possibly cover for this, conceal the fact that the map is completely unfamiliar, when Eluréd asks, "Where are we?"

"Here." Celebrían points at a spot just to the west of the mountains that are not the Ered Luin. "In the foothills of the Hithaeglir. See where is written 'Imladris'?"

Elurín follows her finger with his gaze. Indeed, just above it are flowing letters-

Unfamiliar letters.

Elurín knows how to read. He'd started with his name, carefully traced over and over in with angled strokes, moved on from there until he could recognise a whole word at little more than a glance, until the whole alphabet was an old friend. This is- this is writing, he can tell that it is writing, but it's all wrong. In place of the clear straight lines Elurín was expecting are curves, loops and whorls, the letters trailing dots and dashes as though the scribe had been drunk-

Without a word, Elurín turns to the nearest bookshelf, glances at the tomes closest to him. Some bear an inscription curling gold against the leather of their spine. All of them are in the same script.

Tears sting his eyes. This isn't _fair._ He was going to search the library, find something to help them, save himself and Eluréd – prove to his disparaging that reading was _useful-_

"Are you all right?"

Celebrían is walking towards him. Her voice is concerned, but at the moment all Elurín can think about is that she is not Mother, and that no matter how much he cries or screams it will not bring her back. Here he is surrounded by strangers, his brother the only person he can trust, and the thing he thought would help them-

"The letters are all _wrong,_ " he manages through a choked, tight throat. It was meant to be quiet, for Eluréd's ears only, but he is having trouble controlling his voice and it slipped out loud enough for Celebrían to hear.

Eluréd has been watching all this with a crease steadily growing between his eyes. It turns into a proper scowl at Eluréd's words. "This place is useless," he snaps now. "Come on, let's go back to the horses."

And then he is suddenly gone, the door banging shut behind him, leaving only Elurín fighting both tears and betrayal.

And, of course, Celebrían.

Carefully, as though he were some skittish deer, she rests her hand on his shoulder. The touch is light, entirely unlike Mother's firm grip. "I'm sorry." Then, after a pause. "I can teach you the Tengwar. If you would like."

Caught, Elurín stares into Celebrían's face, open, honest, sympathetic. Yet another kindness, another one he needs to reject-

Elurín remembers honey-cakes and bandages and two beds side-by-side, waterfalls and Father smiling proudly as he stumbles through a paragraph. Before he can think better of it, he nods once, firmly, sealing the deal.

Then he turns and runs after his brother.

*****

The boys settle into Imladris surprisingly smoothly. If Celebrían wanted to be fanciful, she'd think the valley had always been waiting for them – that there had always been a silence here waiting to be broken by childish laughter and pattering feet, trees waiting to be climbed, tall rocks to be conquered, a room to be claimed and made the boys' own-

Once again, she reminds herself sternly that they are not hers.

"It's good to have young voices around the place again. There's been hardly any since Eldacar." Elrond sounds wistful. Celebrían, who knows Elrond wants children at least as much as she, suspects she's not the only one who has been tempted to indulge in dreams and make-believe of late. "And they're beginning to recover from their experience in mind as well as body."

"You think so? They still don't seem to trust us at all." Celebrían pulls a face. "As proven by the fact that they still haven't told us their names. I'm beginning to contemplate nicknames."

The suggestion is half-serious, but Elrond treats it as deadly earnest. His mouth thins, his brows draw together, he shakes his head in immediate rejection.

"I will not push them to share those." The words are decisive, a judgement made. One burdened, Celebrían thinks, by something even heavier than the situation at hand.

Just as with the boys, she does not ask but waits, lets the silence lengthen.

"After Sirion," Elrond says after a long moment, words coming slowly, "Maedhros asked us for our names. We refused to tell him. It was- it was one of the only things we could control, back then, with Sirion burning at our backs, everything we'd ever known gone, the monsters of our childhood tales trying to bandage the wounds they themselves had inflicted. A pointless piece of resistance, really. I'm certain we'd have given it up eventually, but then one of them dubbed us _One_ and _Two_ and..." There is something very helpless to his shrug. "It became a matter of principle, after that."

Celebrían has listened with bated breath. Elrond speaks of his childhood so very rarely, even to her. "But... you're not called that now."

Elrond shrugs again. "Eventually, we took our true names up once more. But it took a long, long time." So quietly Celebrían can hardly hear him, he adds, "Sometimes I wonder if we really got them the right way around, after so long."

For a moment, Celebrían does not know what to say, awash in the sea of her husband's pain. She is a child of light and laughter, born into Ost-in-Edhil's days of glory when all thought peace would last forever. She has nothing to set on the scales against the memory of Elrond and his brother, lost and stolen and losing pieces of themselves.

Then the words come.

"The boys are so very lucky, to have been found by someone who understands what they are going through."

As she speaks, she rises, moves to her husband's chair, leans down to twine her arms around his shoulders, rest her chin against his hair.

For a moment, Elrond is still. Then he turns in his seat, his own arms coming up to draw her further down.

"Luckier still," he murmurs against her mouth, "to have been found by you, my lady, whose kindness still awes me each and every day."

They are silent for some time after that.

Eventually, Celebrían straightens, reluctantly disentangling herself. There will be time for such things later. For now, her attention should be on the boys.

"You say you think they are healing?"

Elrond lets her pull away. Dimly, she can feel her chagrin at getting distracted mirrored in him. Then he sweeps it away, thoughts focusing.

"Yes. They will allow themselves to be separated now, have you noticed? For more and more time. Yesterday, the one learning to ride spent half the day with the new ponies from Tyrn Gorthad." Having returned to her seat, Celebrían can see the smile flit across Elrond's face. "He's coming along quite nicely, for someone I'm almost certain never saw a horse before coming here. But his brother isn't interested..."

"...and spent the afternoon in the library instead," Celebrían took up the thread. "He is also coming along nicely. He's started reading books - I gave him your collection of folk-tales of the Minhiriath to start on, it's easy language and I wager they're more likely to keep his interest than Pengolodh's histories."

"So soon?" Elrond's eyebrows are raised.

"It seems he really did already know to read, just in a different alphabet. The Cirth."

The word hangs in the air between them. A boy of the Third Age who reads Sindarin written with the Cirth but not Tengwar; another impossibility to add to the pile.

And it is a large pile. There is, of course, the oddity of their sudden appearance and absurd injuries, near frozen to death in summer. It has been joined by linguistic issues: their Sindarin is a pure, perfect Doriathrin Celebrían's father would weep to hear, one Celebrían is fairly sure has not been heard in these lands for near an Age, while the other language they speak in private Celebrían cannot identify at all. Even Elrond can only say it sounds vaguely familiar.

More, it is clear the boys have been educated in map-reading and the theory of geography, but they are nonetheless totally ignorant of the lands around them. To all apperances, they have never heard of not just Imladris, but also any of the nearby villages or Arnor itself, nor Eryn Lasgalen, Laurelindórinand, Gondor, nor even Númenor. Then there is their awed caution while dealing with Secondborn coupled by their familiarity with Elves, the latter leading Celebrían to believe more and more that these are no Secondborn children despite their Númenorean appearance.

None of it adds up...

...except that there is one way in which it does, in which all Celebrían's questions neatly answer themselves.

"Sometimes," Celebrían whispers all the same, "I think I know what their names are." Elrond bows his head, and Celebrían can feel his agreement.

Neither of them speak aloud the problem with their theory, the one that ties off all the loose ends so very tidily: the fact that it is completely impossible.

*****

Elurín eyes the stranger warily from behind the safety of a bookshelf.

Eluréd has gotten to know many of Imladris' residents and guests, but just as when they arrived in Doriath Elurín is more cautious (he would say), or perhaps more fearful (how Eluréd would put it). He skirts around them, ducks behind shelves, avoids people's gazes and generally tries to hide away from notice. It has worked fairly well so far, although he has the disconcerting feeling that this is only true because Elrond and Celebrían have been indulging him.

He'd like to continue doing that now, but there is a problem: the stranger is seated in the reading-nook Elurín usually uses. Worse, Elurín left the book he was reading on the table, and now there is no way of retrieving it without drawing unwanted attention.

Elurín ponders. On the one hand, he desperately wants to know how the tale of Avrida and the great flood ends. On the other, the stranger is not just a stranger, but also a Dwarf.

He'd been afraid of Dwarves for years after so many tales of how they had killed Great-Grandfather, how Grandfather had had to ride out to war against them, and so the first time he'd spotted a Dwarf in the halls of Imladris he'd been terrified. Eluréd had noticed and jabbed an elbow into his side.

"Think!" He'd hissed. "It wasn't _Dwarves_ who killed Mother, was it?"

Elurín had of course hit back, but by the time Celebrían separated them he found himself forced to admit that Eluréd had a point. Still, much though he might tell his fear to go away it kept coming back, as though its roots were spread too deep through his mind to be ripped out so easily.

Elurín has almost made up his mind to leave the book for now and come back later when the Dwarf looks up.

"I don't bite, lad. Stop hovering around the bookshelves and come give an old Dwarf some company."

Caught, Elurín is left with no option other than to shuffle warily forward.

It's the first time Elurín has ever seen a Dwarf up close and he's hard-put not to stare. The Dwarf is probably no taller than Elurín himself, but at least thrice as wide, and his hair! He bears almost none on his head, but as if to make up for that it sprouts pure white from his cheeks and chin. The beard has been carefully arranged and painstakingly braided, with a jewelled clasp drawing it together to a point. Elurín has never seen the like.

Once Elurín is a few feet away, the Dwarf bows, carefully, making his beard swing. "I'm Grér. Pleased to make your acquaintance, lad."

"At your service," Elurín responds automatically. Then, to skim over the gap where his name should be, "Are you looking for anything? I know where most sections are, I could help you if you're searching for a book."

There – a smooth change of subject, to disguise the fact that he did not introduce himself in turn. Elurín has been learning from Celebrían.

The beard shifts, cheek-braids pulling apart. It takes Elurín a moment to realise the Dwarf is smiling. "I do believe I'll be fine. It's not my first time in Lord Elrond's library. In the meantime..." he reaches forward, plucks the book Elurín left there last night from the table, "I suspect _you_ might have been looking for this?"

Elurín snatches _Tales of the Minhiriathrim_ from the outstretched hands and hugs it protectively. He barely remembers to add a "thank you".

"A good book, that." The Dwarf's - Grér's – voice is low, as though they are sharing a confidence. He has not stopped smiling. "I can imagine it's an excellent read at your age. Sadly, I was a little older when I first discovered it here. Khazad-dûm has a library, but the collected myths of long-vanished tribes of Men aren't a priority."

Elurín's ears prick.

Over the past few weeks, Elurín and Eluréd have formed theories as to where, exactly, they are. Elurín's preferred explanation is that he somehow threw them into one of the mirror-worlds of Grandmother's bedtime tales, where everything is distorted from the true reality. Eluréd, in the meantime, believes that they are dead and have passed beyond the Circles of Arda, and this is what awaits Men there. Elurín (a little miffed to be accused of having killed them both) has demanded he explain where Grandmother and Grandfather are in that case. Eluréd has not, but clings to his theory all the same.

Neither of the two account for the fact that the name _Khazad-dûm_ is familiar. It brings to mind warm blankets tucked around him, the scent of pine needles and wood-smoke in crisp air, Mother's voice a low murmur as he is steadily lulled to sleep. She'd spoken of strange, faraway places that she had seen when she was young, of a forest even greater than Ossiriand at the foot of mountains wreathed in clouds. Beneath them, she'd said, lay a kingdom of the Dwarves, so vast one could travel through it for days without reaching the other end – without ever seeing the surface.

She'd stopped telling those stories after they came to Doriath, and this is the first time Elurín has thought about them in a long time. Older, wiser, and more familiar with Mother's truthfulness (or lack thereof) in bedtime stories, he'd consider the entire tale only fantasy, but-

"Khazad-dûm?" The word escapes Elurín, hangs in the air.

"Hadhodrond, you might know it as. Durin's kingdom, lad, where he woke and named the stones."

_And there far beneath the earth, my little stars, we met the Dwarf-King – Durin himself, first of their kind, up on a great throne hewn from stone-_

"That's to the east, isn't it?" Elurín hears himself ask. Because it must be east of the Ered Luin, in the lands his mother travelled before she came to Beleriand-

Except that they are not in Beleriand, now are they?

And Grér is shaking his head. "South – yes, it is beneath the Hithaeglir proper while Imladris lies in the foothills, but the range sweeps round to the west as you travel. Let me show you." And he levers himself out of his chair with a groan.

Standing, Grér proves himself to indeed be around Elurín's height, though he loses a few inches because he stoops to lean on a cane. Still, he walks quick enough when he steps forward, quick enough that Elurín is taken by surprise and flinches away as he passes. Yet Grér does not move to grab him, does not even seem to notice Elurín's momentary panic. He is intent on his goal – the map on the far wall, the one that so disturbed Elurín that first day.

"Here," he says now, pointing. "Here is Imladris, and here is Khazad-dûm, its gates opening onto Hollin-"

An odd mirror, this, as once again Elurín stands before the unfamiliar map, once again someone shows him where he is. But Grér is not Celebrían, and this time Elurín can read _Imladris_ and, after, _Hadhodrond,_ inscribed in neat flowing letters.

But if Khazad-dûm is so close by, then...

Elurín's eyes track west on the map.

Grér follows his gaze. "Ah, the Ered Luin." He clicks his tongue. "Still many Firebeards and Broadbeams who live there, but many have also moved to Khazad-dûm in recent years. No wonder – their trade has been hard-hit by the loss of Forlond, and it's been a long, long time since the glory days of Gabilgathol and Tumunzahar. Belegost and Nogrod, in your tongue."

After so long in strange lands, the familiar names are a shock. _The Ered Luin, Belegost, Nogrod-_

And indeed there are mountains in the west. Elurín had dismissed them when he first saw the map because they are broken, the range split into pieces by the Sea. But now, he can read the letters beside them, and it seems Grér is correct, for the label reads _Ered Luin_.

And a little further to the west, the impossible: _Lindon._

Ossiriand.

_Home._

Except since when has Ossiriand bordered the Sea?

And for that matter, if this is Ossiriand, then _where is Doriath?_

"I-" Elurín finds himself overwhelmed, his voice is trembling. He needs to investigate this, figure out what it means, how it fits into the picture he has assembled so far. And to do that, he needs to talk to Eluréd – talk to him alone, far away from this suspiciously kind Dwarf with disconcertingly piercing eyes. "I need- I need to go. I need to find my brother-"

_Courtesy. Smoothe it over._ Elurín has been watching Celebrían closely, jealous of how she shapes things to her liking with hardly anyone realising. Time to see how much he has learned. "I thank you, for your time, and for telling me of your homeland." He attempts a clumsy bow.

Grér has not stopped smiling. "That's right. Run along, you're too young to be shut inside listening to an old Dwarf like me." But then, before, Elurín can draw away, he continues. "I must say, I had no idea Lord Elrond had children. Give your father my regards – and tell him I was very impressed by your politeness to a guest."

He winks. After a long moment, Elurín manages a frozen smile back. Then he bolts, thoughts tumbling over themselves in his head.

So preoccupied by where they were, by what they should think of Imladris and its people, Elurín hadn't thought about what those people must be thinking of them in turn. Hadn't thought of what tales Elrond and Celebrían might be telling, to explain their presence-

Or had they? Grér had come to his conclusion on his own. Elrond looks so like Father – or, to turn it around, Elurín and Eluréd look so much like Elrond. Two boys clearly welcome in the valley, guided by its lady, like in appearance to its lord... silence would have spoken for itself.

Elurín means to find Eluréd. He truly does. But his feet take him elsewhere.

*****

Elrond's study is up several winding staircases from the library, with a balcony that overlooks the greatest waterfall in the valley. The room itself is small, smaller than Father's study in Menegroth – although that may simply be the impression made by how crowded it is. Bookshelves climb all the way to the high ceiling, and every free surface is piled with objects: a beaded necklace here, a stone knife with a wrapped leather hilt there, a series of strange wooden dolls on the fireplace's mantel, a heap of yellowing scrolls having taken over a padded bench. Father, organized as he is, would no doubt be appalled at the mess, but secretly Elurín likes it. It's exciting, welcoming, all the treasures from far-away lands inviting him inside to listen to their stories. Elrond has shared some of them, and the least trinket seemed to have a tale of great adventure attached to it.

Here and now, Elrond does not look as though he is in a story-telling mood. Instead, he is seated at his desk with a quill in his hand, face set in concentration. He is clearly busy, and Elurín begins to think twice of disturbing him – but it is too late. Elurín must have made some noise when he opened the door, because Elrond is looking up.

"Child?" His brow furrows. "What's wrong?"

It's only then that Elurín realises he's started crying.

He tries to respond, but his breath catches as sobs rise up to choke him. Elrond's expression creases further in concern, and with a whisper of cloth he hurries to Elurín's side.

"No, don't try to talk. Here, sit."

The scrolls are swept aside to make room for Elurín on the bench. Gentle hands guide him down, squeeze his shoulder. They vanish for a few moments, only to return bearing a cup.

"Laerchiril always brings me far too much tea," Elrond's voice murmurs, "but I shall have to thank her for it this time. Drink."

The lukewarm liquid is frightfully bitter, and Elurín is hard-pressed not to pull a face when it touches his tongue. Still, he obeys, and he fancies that with each sip he can feel his heart slow, his tears die down.

Eventually, his breathing is even again. Elrond, kneeling before him, studies his face critically, then sits back on his heels with a satisfied huff. "Better."

He takes the cup back, passes Elurín a handkerchief in its stead. Elurín wipes his face and blows his nose, shame starting to take the place of his fragile calm. Despite all his caution, he likes Elrond, who always seems to know what Elurín needs without having to ask, always has some tale of adventure in faraway places to share. He can't believe he bawled in front of the man, like a _baby-_

But if Elrond is taken aback by Elurín's immaturity, it doesn't show. He seems nothing but concerned when he asks, "What happened?" After a moment, his mouth tightens. "Did anyone say something... unkind?"

It is clear from his expression that calm, endlessly patient Elrond is ready to leap forth and unleash his wrath on whoever upset Elurín. Yet another kindness heaped in front of him without his asking. A veritable mountain they are by now, and all of a sudden Elurín feels he is drowning beneath it. Elrond and Celebrían give away their kindnesses so freely with no apparent expectation of return – right now Elurín thinks he cannot bear one more.

Without his willing it, his mouth opens and he speaks.

"I don't understand you. We- we haven't given you anything, not even our names, and still you open your house to us! We could be anyone, we could- Grér thought I was your _son_ and you let him- I don't understand, I don't-"

His rising voice, the tears he can again feel welling up, are broken by hands pulling him up from his seat. Stunned, he finds his face pressed into cloth, feels arms clasping him tight.

Elrond isn't Father, and yet Elurín lets himself collapse into the hug all the same.

After a long moment of silence, Elrond speaks, his breath stirring Elurín's hair. His tone is barely above a whisper, yet they are so close Elurín has no trouble hearing every word.

"When I was a little younger than you, my brother and I were torn from our parents by fire and sword."

A gasp escapes Elurín, muffled against Elrond's robes. Elrond is wise and confident, old and powerful. It's next to impossible to think of him as a child at all, never to mention one lost and vulnerable, Elurín's age in Elurín's place. And with a brother, too?

Elrond is still speaking. "I know what it is to be young and afraid in a strange place surrounded by strangers, your hope that someone will appear to rescue you fading day by day. I cannot describe how much it grieves me to see you in the same situation. My only balm is that I may yet make it better for you than it was for us."

He pulls back a little now so that he is kneeling in front of Elurín, hands still gripping his shoulders, eyes boring into him. "I remember, and I want to help. And so I will never demand trust of you, never ask more than you are willing to give. I avoid oaths as a rule, but I am willing to swear it, if you wish."

Elurín closes his eyes as the words echo through him. Intense, fervent even, it is impossible not to believe them. His caution suddenly strikes Elurín as immature, babyish. And so, even as Elrond speaks of his right to his mistrust, Elurín finds himself ready to cast it aside.

"I. I understand, but. I." He licks his lips, feels as if he stands on a precipice. If he takes another step, things will change irrevocably-

But there is no way to go back, and he cannot stand frozen on the edge forever.

"My name is-"

A finger presses over his lips, cutting off his words. He blinks at Elrond in surprise. The man is smiling, but there is something sad in his eyes.

"I appreciate the thought, but you have had a great shock. This is a decision you should not make in the heat of the moment, but think over first. And, of course, talk about with your brother."

Elurín drops his eyes. Elrond is right, of course. Perhaps Elurín is ready to trust – but he cannot tell his story without telling Eluréd's as well.

"If I have the time right," Elrond says, "he should be coming up from the stables just about now. You can meet him on the stairs. I find the fifth-level western balcony that comes out beside the falls an excellent place for private conversations, by the by – a little damp, but the only way anyone can hear a word that you're saying is if they're on top of you."

Elrond squeezes his shoulders one last time, then releases him. Elurín staggers for a moment, as though his body has forgotten how to stand without Elrond's support.

"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, but Elrond simply shakes his head.

"I do not want your gratitude. I would rather have your happiness, on the day you are open to it once more. For now – go. Think it over, talk to your brother. I will be here at sunset, if you still desire it we may speak then."

A pause. Elrond's expression changes, he looks unsure for the first time in this conversation. Finally, he continues. "Before that, I am planning to attend the performance in the Hall of Fire before supper tonight. I suggest you and your brother come as well. I may be wrong, but I think you might find it... interesting."

*****

Later, Elurín and Eluréd sneak into the Hall of Fire, taking unnoticed seats at the back of the hall. It isn't the first time they're done so, Elurín in particular, but the songs – though exciting – had always been filled with unfamiliar names and places. The last time he was here, Elurín sat through a ballad about a Golodh king called Gil-galad at war in a dark place called Mordor. The music had been beautiful, the story exciting... but the only dark place Elurín knows is Angband, and thanks to his tutors he knows the king of the Golodhrim is called Turgon. He'd left deciding this place was of no use, that he would spend his time more wisely in the library instead.

Today is different.

Today, the bard sings of Doriath, beautiful and lost.

He sings of the things they know – of Great-Grandfather falling at the hands of the treacherous Dwarves, of Dior the Beautiful coming to take up rule in his stead. (Elurín is upset that the only thing this singer cares to know of his wise, patient, wonderful father is that he is pretty. Eluréd counters that the singer hasn't even mentioned Mother at all.) Of the Sons of Fëanor descending upon fair Doriath in midwinter, like a horde of slavering wolves.

Elurín and Eluréd shift closer together at that point.

The song continues.

The bard sings of Dior fallen before his throne – and oh, Elurín had tried to prepare himself, but some tiny part of him had still hoped so very fiercely that Father had survived. He sings of Dior's twin sons, forever lost, and Elurín and Eluréd carefully do not look at each other. Then he sings of Dior's only daughter, the only one to escape, the Silmaril around her throat.

Elurín cannot suppress his sigh of relief when he hears that Elwing is all right. They will have to find her, he thinks. Mother and Father would have expected it of them – and in truth, some part of Elurín expects it of himself, ever since he imagined Elwing all alone in the snow. Now, he waits for the song to finish, because surely they have neared its end-

But still the bard continues.

He sings of Elwing's escape to the coast, how she grew tall and strong there. (Eluréd and Elurín share an odd look.) How she met Eärendil, half-Elven like her, of the lost realm of Gondolin-

Eluréd hisses a question: since when are there other Peredhil? Elurín shares his confusion. More, he knows he does not always pay as much attention to his lessons as he should... but he is _certain_ he would have heard about it if Gondolin had fallen to the Enemy.

The song ends with Eärendil and Elwing's wedding. The minstrel bows.

"Thank you for listening to this tale of Elwing's youth. If you enjoyed it, you can return tomorrow for more songs of the First Age."

The First Age.

Elurín has gathered enough of Imladris to know they are currently in the second century of the _Third_ Age.

And all of a sudden, what has happened to them is horribly, blindingly clear.

"I can't believe," Eluréd whispers into his ear, "you sent us into the _future._ "

Elurín would defend himself, but he has no idea what he could possibly say.

*****

Elurín does not remember how they got through supper with that revelation echoing through them. The usually-delicious food tastes like ashes, and Elurín manages only a few bites before he pushes his plate away. Eluréd soon follows suit, and as the setting sun dyes the valley red they race up to Elrond's study.

As promised, Elrond is there. He has cleared off the padded bench, pushed his desk to the side so they can sit in a little circle facing each other. Celebrían has joined him, eyes wide with curiosity.

Eluréd greets them. There is no trace of nerves on his face, although Elurín can feel them in his mind. "Good evening to you." The formal greeting is accompanied by a small bow. "I am Eluréd, son of Dior Eluchil and Nimloth. This is my brother Elurín."

The words hang in the air.

Neither Elrond nor Celebrían, Elurín notes, look entirely surprised.

"It is a pleasure to be introduced to you properly," Elrond says after a moment. "And, in turn: I am Elrond. My parents are Eärendil and Elwing."

"And I am his wife Celebrían, daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn," Celebrían adds briskly.

Now it is Elurín's turn to be unsurprised. He'd been wondering whether Celebrían might be related to his cousin Celeborn, Galathil's brother who left Doriath before Elurín was born, for some time. As for Elrond, with the knowledge of their displacement in time, there is really only one explanation for his appearance.

Although...

"I am very glad to finally meet you, my uncles."

Elurín tries to put together his annoying baby sister Elwing and the Elf-lord before him. Fails. Tries to connect the word _nephew_ to the man, and finds it sliding off.

This may take some getting used to.

Eluréd, he can tell, is having the same trouble, but prefers to focus on something else: their – _hosts' –_ lack of surprise. "You knew," he says now, tone almost accusing.

"We guessed," Celebrían corrects him. "As soon as it became clear you were Peredhil rather than Númenorean, that you had the speech and knowledge of Doriath – well, there was one mysteriously vanished set of twins matching your description." Her mouth twists. "We weren't sure, however, because the theory required us to explain how you had not aged at all in the past three millennia and we were rather short on possibilities."

"We did it." Eluréd holds his head up proudly. Elurín cannot help but feel a little bitter that something that was solely Elurín's fault earlier has turned into a joint responsibility now that there is credit to be taken. "We were in the woods, frightened, and found-" He stumbles, trying to find the words. "Some- power within us- we fell unconscious when we tried to use it, and woke up here."

"Well!" Celebrían sits back. "Some inheritance from Melian, perhaps? No wonder we didn't guess."

"Actually, I was wondering about that possibility," Elrond contradicts her. "I spent some time speaking with Eönwë, during the War of Wrath – the war that sank Beleriand," he explains on seeing the blank expression on their faces. "The Valar came with an army, led in part by a Maia of Manwë by the name of Eönwë. He was fairly interested in us, Elros and I, as Melian's last descendants. He told us that although our foremother joined Yavanna's following after the Lamps fell, originally she had been one of Vairë's kindred."

It takes Elurín a moment to parse the Quenya. "The Weaver?"

"Exactly." Elrond shoots him a thoughtful look. "And indeed, later, when I found myself hard-pressed, I sometimes felt that time was not moving quite... right. In battle, a blow that should have ended me would come just slow enough for me to parry, or I would find myself dodging quicker than I should be able. And once, fleeing from battle, my group of shocked refugees and wounded soldiers somehow covered more ground in a day than a fully-rested scout party would have managed in two, leaving our pursuers well behind. I slept for half a week after that. So..." He shrugs. "I never managed to throw myself thousands of years in the future, true, but there was enough for me to suspect."

Celebrían looks at him accusingly. "Some husband you are! You could have mentioned some of that earlier."

"My apologies." The words are directed at Celebrían, but Elrond's gaze searches out theirs as if to underscore that is meant for all of them. "I was afraid I was reading into things. It is so easy to see only that which we wish to be true."

"Wish? Why?"

It's only after Eluréd turns to him, anger in his eyes – _I thought we agreed I would do the talking –_ that Elurín realises the question came from him. He flinches, but holds his ground. He wants to understand this.

"You didn't know us. Why would you have cared?"

Elrond sighs. "My mother never gave up hope that you had survived, somewhere. At the beginning, Elros and I hoped on her behalf. Later, after Sirion fell, we hoped on ours – because it seemed as though our fates were mirror images. Perhaps, I thought, if you had escaped the Fëanorians, we might do so as well. But, Elros thought, if you had died of cold in the woods, what hope was there for us?"

Elrond inhales, breath shuddering. His eyes are very far away. "Later still, I hoped on behalf of you yourselves. Because what happened to you was terrible, and you did not deserve for your story to end there." His lips quirk up. "And so, when my people found a strange pair of twins in the woods, I could not help wishing. I told myself I was fooling myself. I'm glad I was not."

Elurín realises, with a start, that Celebrían has taken Elrond's hand into her own at his side, that their fingers are twined together. It makes him feel a lot less childish that he is currently holding Eluréd's.

"Well!" Celebrían says now. Her tone is brisk, but she has not let go of Elrond's hand. "It's good to have that cleared up. And I do understand, even if I still think you could have told me, Elrond. Now, I hope you will all forgive me for asking the obvious question. What do we do now?"

The silence stretches.

None of them need to say it: there is no way back. Doriath has lain beneath the Sea for three millennia, the recorded histories say there was no trace of Elurín or Eluréd after its fall. Even if Elurín thought it was possible, he has no idea what he did to get them here, no idea how to reverse it to send them back safely. If he tried, he might simply throw them even further into the future... this time without the safe haven Elrond and Celebrían are granting them.

(To say nothing of the fact that going back to the time and place they left would do them no good at all.)

"It is possible," Elrond says now, hesitantly, "that your mother has been reembodied in Valinor. That if you were to sail, she would be waiting for you on the shore."

The omission is glaring. Eluréd notices it too. "And Father?" he asks.

Elrond closes his eyes. "Eönwë told me that as both his parents were mortal when he was born, Dior was subject to the Gift of Men. When he died in Doriath, he passed beyond the circles of Arda."

That-

Elurín takes that fact, packs it up neatly, and tucks it away in his mind. He will need to confront it properly, he knows, but later. There is no way he can deal with this new piece of knowledge and also handle their current conversation.

(Father deserves better than for him to try.)

"So," Elrond is saying, "it is possible that your mother will be in Valinor. But I do not know, and once you sail there is no returning. More, there is the matter of the Choice."

Elurín has just learned that he is more attuned to the Weaver's tapestries than he ever thought. Now, he fancies he can _feel_ the Doom in that word. "The Choice?"

"The Choice of the Peredhil: which kindred to belong to. I and my brother were subject to it, so also your sister, and my children should I have them. There is no way it does not govern you as well." Elrond hesitates. "It is a weighty thing, the Choice, for the fate you choose will bind you irrevocably until the end of Arda. I recommend that you do not make it until you are well of age, have thought through all your options and are certain of what you want. And yet, you cannot sail West without choosing the Elves."

Elurín and Eluréd glance at each other. They share a single thought, unspoken.

"You are of course more than welcome to stay with us, should you choose not to sail," Celebrían says. "Elrond and I would be delighted for you to make this your home. However..."

Elurín does not like the sound of that.

Neither does Eluréd. "However?" he repeats, tone sharp.

"You will not be able to do it under your names." Celebrían looks grave as she delivers the blow. "It would be too hard to explain how it is that Dior's sons came to Imladris here and now. Worse yet, if any should guess – or we should let slip – that to all appearances, you did it under your own power. The ability to wander through Vairë's work at will is one many a person would give anything for."

"To say nothing of the Enemy." Elrond's voice is low. Images drift out from him, as though he is too preoccupied to guard his mind – a beautiful golden-haired man with something calculating in his gaze, a terrible armoured figure with bodies crumpled before it like rag-dolls, a giant eye wreathed in flame and shadow. A golden ring.

Understanding sends a cold shiver along Elurín's spine. Morgoth is gone, in this future... but Gorthaur may yet lurk in the shadows. What would Morgoth's first lieutenant give, for the chance to go back and undo his master's defeat?

What would he do to Elurín and Eluréd to gain it?

Elrond twitches, as though he was about to reach out and thought better of it. "I will not let that happen to you," he promises. "But you see why we cannot let the world know that Dior's sons are here."

"So what can we do instead?" Eluréd demands.

An instant later, Elurín remembers Grér, and the answer comes to him.

"You would need to be our – mine and Celebrían's – sons," Elrond confirms Elurín's thought. "We look very alike, after all. It is not a difficult story to believe. There are those who know differently – the ones who found you in the woods, the residents of Imladris who know that there were no children here a year ago – but for the most part they are loyal to us."

"And there are ways of convincing the rest." Where Elrond sounds somber, Celebrían seems nothing but cheerful. "Give me a few years, and half the valley will be ready to swear they knew you as babes."

"I'll leave the details to my wife, then, since she clearly has it all planned out." Elrond's voice is very dry. When Elurín catches his eye, he winks. Elurín has to suppress a giggle.

Eluréd has been thinking along different lines. "You'd do that?" Suspicion is thick in his voice.

"It would be our honour and joy," Celebrían answers immediately. Now there is solemnity in her voice as well, the light-heartedness gone as though she wants to impress on them how serious she is. "I would like nothing more than to keep you here and watch you grow up free from sorrow."

Elurín doesn't know how to respond to that, twists his fingers together in his lap, bites his lip. Celebrían is not Mother, and Elrond is not Father. Don't his parents deserve better from him than to let someone else take on their roles?

But they are gone, Father forever, Mother perhaps not but beyond reach all the same. And he likes Elrond and Celebrían. Elrond, who he has finally begun to see without immediately thinking of someone else, with his humour and stories and quiet patience. Celebrían, bright enough to be dazzling, with her way of making the world give way before her unnoticed which Elurín has been trying to copy. Their amazing, endless kindness, both of them. He likes them a lot. Likes _Imladris_ a lot, with its many nooks and crannies begging to be explored, the library waiting to be read, the open air, the waterfalls. The idea of staying here with them is...

He shouldn't want it. But guiltily, shamefully, he does.

"You do not have to decide immediately," Elrond says in a low voice, as though sensing Elurín's turmoil. "You have been here for weeks already with no explanation given, a few more will do no harm. You have the time to think it over."

"And if there is anything either of us can do for you in the meantime..." Celebrían adds.

A moment ago, Elurín would have said that the only thing he wants is to find his bed and bury himself in the blankets in hope that the world will make more sense tomorrow. But when Celebrían offers, he realises that there is indeed something they need.

"Can you tell us more about what happened?"

To Doriath, to Ossiriand, to Beleriand itself. Elurín thinks about the map on the wall showing unfamiliar lands, the ballad of Gil-galad, all the places and people in everyone's mouths which he has never heard of. It has been more than an Age and the world has changed beyond recognising. They need to know how.

"We would be delighted," Celebrían says. "What did you want to know?"

*****

For a while, they jump between topics. They touch on Elrond's brother Elros (absent through death, it turns out, as he chose mortality), move over to the War of Wrath which is to blame for the loss of Beleriand, speak of some of the lands east of the Ered Luin. Elurín and Eluréd learn of the elven realms of Eryn Lasgalen, Laurelindórinand and Edhellond, of the kingdoms Arnor and Gondor that belong to Elros' descendants, of the great citadel of Hadhodrond beneath the mountains which is Grér's home.

Then Elurín manages to get in one of his questions. The bard gave their sister's story a happy end... but Elrond said he was stolen from his parents as well. What happened to Elwing?

She lives, Elrond explains – dissolving an unformed horror that was growing in Elurín's mind – but in Valinor.

"When the Fëanorians attacked our home, she- fell from the cliffs, transformed into a bird and flew away. She met my father's ship, they sailed west and brought the army of the Valar to Beleriand. But they weren't able to return themselves."

Picturing this is proving rather difficult, especially because it is still impossible for Elurín to think of Elwing as an adult. He cheats by imagining his sister turning into a baby bird, some squawking ball of fluff only able to sit in its nest and scream for its parents. This comes much easier.

"Wait a moment," Eluréd interrupts his thoughts. "Elwing could shift her shape? Like Grandmother could?"

Eluréd's idea passes straight into Elurín's mind, and for a moment the gravity of their situation is lost in his excitement. "Do you think _we_ could learn?"

"Well, obviously," Eluréd responds before Elrond can answer. "If Elwing could do it..."

He's completely right, of course. There's simply no way they will be worse at something than baby Elwing.

Elrond looks rather startled. "I... suppose so? I always thought it was Ulmo's work, but you're right that Lúthien was known for transformation as well. It's not as if it would be the only unlikely gift passed down, considering the current situation..." Elrond's voice trails off. A spark is growing in his eyes, Elurín and Eluréd's excitement proving contagious. "It's possible, it really is. I have books on bird anatomy- perhaps it's simply a matter of-"

At that point, Celebrían interrupts. "There will be no attempted shape-shifting until everyone is of age, and then only under supervision," she says firmly. "Elrond, _really._ You haven't even finished telling them about Sirion."

That sobers the room.

Especially when Elrond goes on to explain that unlike Elurín and Eluréd, he and his brother did not escape the Fëanorians. Elurín thinks his eyes are close to falling out of his face in shock. "They didn't kill you?"

Elrond shakes his head. "They were... as kind to us as was possible, in the situation." Elurín notes the qualifier. "They kept us, though, instead of arranging for an exchange with Círdan and Gil-galad. We never knew why... I thought they wanted us as hostages, in case our parents returned with the Silmaril. Elros thought it had something to do with you."

"With us?"

Elrond sighs. "Leaving you in the woods – that wasn't their decision. Maedhros was horrified when he heard of it, ran out to search for you... but obviously never found you. He said he thought you'd died of the cold. Faced with a second pair of twins... he wasn't always rational, when it came to us."

_Maedhros._ He must have been the one chasing them, who drove them all the way into the future in their desperation. It is nearly impossible to imagine a bloody-handed Fëanorion feeling horrified, even guilty, as if he were a real person. Nearly impossible to imagine one of the monsters who destroyed his home and killed his parents wanting to _save_ them.

Except that apparently he didn't hurt Elrond or his brother. Quite the contrary, from what Elrond is saying.

"You mean he'd have helped us?" Eluréd echoes what Elurín is thinking. "We didn't need to..." His voice trails off, he simply gestures at their surroundings.

Elurín can hear the accusation in those words. He feels a hot ball of shame build in his stomach.

Because – it's true, isn't it? Maybe Elurín didn't need to send them catapulting into the far future. If Maedhros Fëanorion really wouldn't have killed them, would have rescued them from the cold, have taken them out of the woods, have-

Would have what?

What would have happened after?

And indeed, Elrond is shaking his head. "I think it was for the best, honestly. Elros and I learned the hard way that no matter what they said, no matter what they claimed to feel, when the Oath called Maedhros and Maglor obeyed. At the very end, they must have known it was hopeless. After all, how could they ever retrieve the Silmaril my father bore from the heavens? And yet they drew sword all the same."

Elrond has been staring at the wall, eyes unfocussed. Now his gaze shifts, meets Elurín's. Elurín almost quails at the darkness in it.

"I do not want to imagine," Elrond pronounces each word very carefully, as though it were made of thorns, "what would have happened, if Maedhros had held you two when he heard that the Silmaril was in Sirion."

Everyone is silent for a little while after that. Elurín no longer feels shame bubbling up within him. Instead, despite the warmth of the room, he feels very, very cold.

A blaze of heat – Eluréd, pressing into his side. Startled, Elurín looks at him.

"Sorry," Eluréd mutters, face red with embarrassment. The words aren't meant for his sudden movement, Elurín knows. His brother is apologising for blaming him.

"'S alright," he whispers back, and refrains from pushing Eluréd away even though his elbow is digging into Elurín's ribs.

Celebrían's eyes flicker between the two of them. "I think," she says, "that we've spoken enough for one night. It's getting late, especially for growing boys. As we said earlier, there's no need for you to make your decision tonight."

"No," Elrond agrees. Elurín almost flinches when he meets the man's eyes, but the darkness is gone from them as if it never was. "I advise you to sleep on it."

*****

In truth, of course, there is no choice at all. There is no way Elurín and Eluréd can sail to Valinor. Not after hearing Father will not be there waiting for them. Not after their eyes met and they knew what they must do.

One of their parents bound to Arda, one gone beyond the circles of the world. Two sons: one for each.

One day they will make their Choice, and that day they will choose differently.

But that day need not come for a long time. For now, the stars shine outside, the Silmaril-star (which finally has an explanation, even though Elurín still wants more detail on how it can possibly be Elrond's father) bright against the dark sky. Inside it is warm, the candles lit against the dark in the room – in _their_ room. They entered to find another plate with honeycakes on the nightstand. Elurín suspects Celebrían is trying to bribe them.

More importantly, Elurín and his brother are curled up together, discussing names.

"Elrochir," Eluréd says now.

Elurín snorts. "You've just gone entirely mad about horses."

"Have not!" Eluréd protests immediately, red staining his cheeks. "But it's a good name, isn't it?"

"At least make it Elrohir. Since we're not supposed to be from Doriath anymore, and all."

Eluréd sticks out his tongue, which Elurín chooses to interpret as conceding the point. "Well, how about _your_ name, then?"

Annoyed, Elurín scowls at him. He's been trying to think of one, but everything he's come up with sounds a little off. He wants to get this _right,_ doesn't want to name himself after the first thing that crosses his mind like Eluréd did. Is that so bad?

Elurín has clearly been silent too long, because Eluréd's eyes slide to the honey-cakes. "Elgram?" he suggests brightly.

Elurín shoves him. "Elgram _yourself-_ "

"No, I'm Elrohir now, remember?" Eluréd shoves back. "You're the one who still needs to pick a name. And quickly, or else I'll tell Elrond and Celebrían you want to be called Elunídh."

"If you'd just give me a little time to think!"

Finally, Eluréd is blessedly silent. Soft chewing noises make Elurín think this is because he is currently occupied eating Elurín's cake. Elurín would protest, except that that would almost certainly make Eluréd start calling him 'Elgram' again. No, he will have to nobly suffer this injustice.

Elbadhor? Elthalion?

No. They're not right. There's... there's something missing.

Eluréd is chewing louder, now. Elurín thinks he is trying to be intentionally annoying. Ignoring him is hard, but oddly satisfying.

They'd decided from the start that they would use _El-_ as the first element of their new names. It's the one part they can keep without causing questions, since Elwing turned it into a family tradition. A chain linking them through Father and Grandmother back to Great-Grandfather, Elu Thingol himself.

Not, Elurín realises now, to Grandfather.

Unlike their old names. Eluréd, Elwing – both are half-Sindarin and half-Taliska, Father doing honour to Grandfather's heritage. Elwing had also continued this tradition. _Elros,_ Elrond had called his brother. _Star-foam. After our mother._ Except that foam would be _falf_ in Sindarin. _Ros_ is Taliska.

They will have to abandon so much, pretending to be born of the Third Age. Thinking of his father and grandfather and _Elros_ king-of-Men, of a choice in his future, Elurín finds he refuses to abandon this.

But he cannot name himself in Taliska, not when Elrond does not know it, when the language has been dead for thousands of years besides. That would draw suspicion, and that is what they are trying to avoid.

Perhaps there is some other Mannish tongue of the present day? One Elrond knows, Elurín could use?

_You are overthinking this,_ a voice murmurs in his head.

"Well?" Eluréd demands, crumbs all over his face. Or rather,  _Elrohir_ demands. Best to get used to their new names now. "Do you have a name yet?"

And the answer bubbles up from within him, from the place filled with strange light. As though ever since his arrival in this time it has grown there, waiting.

"Elladan."

**Author's Note:**

> This idea hit me when I was pondering Elladan and time travel (as you do) and realised that if you start from the premise that Melian was one of Vairë's kindred and her descendants have time-travel abilities when backed into a corner ( _obviously_ ), there's one particular loose thread in the legendarium that you can tie up remarkably neatly that way. And reduce the coincidence of three generations of Peredhil twins along the way. Honestly, I was surprised nobody else had written this yet!
> 
> **Linguistic notes**
> 
> _Taliska:_ Details such as Dior having grown up speaking Beren's native language Taliska and Eluréd, Elwing and Elros' names being partially in that language were taken from _The Problem of Ros_ , which may be my favourite Tolkien essay. I opted to have Dior use Taliska with his own kids as well, which is why Eluréd and Elurín speak it on occasion. Elwing would most likely have lost the language after Doriath fell, so Elrond never did learn it.
> 
> _Sindarin:_ Third-Age Sindarin is descended from the western, Falathren, dialect of the First Age, not the Sindarin spoken in Doriath. There's also been some language change since. Conclusion: Elurín thinks all the inhabitants of Imladris sound really weird! However, it's reasonable to think both Elrond and Celebrían grew up speaking the Doriathrin dialect (Elrond from Elwing, Celebrían from Celeborn and quite possibly also Galadriel as well, given her time in Doriath) and now code-switch as necessary.
> 
> _Names:_
> 
> Elgram is formed of _El-_ (star, elf) and _cram_ (cake). Elunídh is _Elu_ (for Thingol) and _nîdh_ (honeycomb). Small wonder Elurín wasn't keen on those options.
> 
> The other options Elurín came up with himself were Elbadhor with _-badhor_ (judge) and Elthalion - _thalion_ is "hero". I think we can all agree that they would also have been suitable for someone so stoically suffering the injustice of his brother eating his dessert...
> 
> Elladan uses _adan_ , Mortal Man, one of the Edain. Not very subtle, Elurín! Elrohir uses _rochir_ , "rider", but in the Gondorian dialect of Sindarin. AFAIK it would actually still have been Elrochir in Imladrian Sindarin, but Elurín and Eluréd are new to these Third Age dialects, small wonder if they got confused.


End file.
